


All the little things

by electricblueninja



Category: Super Junior
Genre: Haewook, M/M, Sticky, marshmallow couple
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-03
Updated: 2018-02-24
Packaged: 2019-01-28 16:43:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12611012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/electricblueninja/pseuds/electricblueninja
Summary: Prequel toA-cha.





	1. Sweater & Jeans

**Author's Note:**

>   
>    
> 
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> Thanks for the [ prompt](https://twitter.com/cerises99/status/709751254562394113), T.

Donghae is not thinking about the things he should be thinking about.

He’s at work, but he’s most definitely not thinking about work. Oh no. He is distracted: torn between a disproportionately high degree of anxiety, and a proportionately high degree of embarrassment about how juvenile he’s being.

He looks again at the photo that his former undergraduate tutor, Ryeowook, has uploaded of last night’s get-together with his former and current students. The photo was taken at the end of the night, after dinner had naturally progressed to second and third rounds elsewhere, and they had all gathered out the front of the bar in the very early hours of the morning before—at least in Donghae’s case—heading home.

There’s about twenty of them in the photo. Donghae, along with a couple of the other graduates from the past few years, stands slightly to the right of the frame, while the majority cluster cheerfully around Ryeowook, who is slightly to the left, and making peace signs.

And the stupid, stupid reason that Donghae is so distracted from his job is that, in the photo, there is a particularly tall and attractive young man, tagged as @phs1116, standing beside Ryeowook.

The caption beneath the photo reads: @phs1116 – _You smell_ _nice,_ _Hyungsikkie!,_ and this is what is bothering Donghae.

Donghae is a graduate now: an adult (supposedly) and a working man. Five years his junior, Hyungsik is a current student of Ryeowook’s who, over the course of the evening, proved himself to be as intelligent and likeable as he was tall and good-looking. Donghae was sat next to him for part of the night, and the younger man had been so pleasant and respectful that he only felt worse about the strange prickle of hostility he felt towards him, since he knew it was unwarranted. But he had felt it nonetheless, and now, seeing the caption Ryeowook has added to the image, his hostility has skyrocketed.

Ryeowook is and always has been a sociable person and a well-liked teacher, generous with the time and attention he invests in his students. And ever since sitting in his classes, and watching the way that Ryeowook played with his pens or ran his fingers over different surfaces, Donghae has noticed that Ryeowook pays attention to the little things in life—the sensory details. So it makes sense that he would appreciate something like a scent. Donghae, too, has a sensitive sense of smell, and can vaguely remember that, to be fair, the perfume that Hyungsik had been wearing was compelling. And so he is almost certain that the message is nothing more than a throwaway observation, and that the jealousy which it evokes in him is unwarranted.

It’s the ‘almost’ which is the problem.

He doesn’t want to be childish about it. He’s not some creepy middle-schooler mooning over their crush on social media.

No, he’s an _adult_.

An adult _…_ mooning over his crush on social media. And silently hating Hyungsik for the way that his shapely hand rests easily— _too_ easily—on Ryeowook’s shoulder. His other arm is around Ryeowook, too; his hand touching his chest. He’s laughing, as though the affectionate gesture is harmless and inoffensive.

It _is_ , of course. Probably. Because if Donghae is brutally honest with himself, he knows that the tableau only makes him angry because he remembers so clearly how _he_ felt when _he_ used to be the student, going out after classes for dinner and drinks with the enigmatic, fox-faced tutor. Even back when he was a student, they'd often gone out in groups, just like last night, but he’s jealous because when _he_ was one of Ryeowook’s undergraduates, he never dared to stand so close to him; dared only to admire him from a distance.

And he still does—he’s still there, in the corner of the photo; his smile thin and automatic, and his eyes cast towards Ryeowook’s profile.

 

 

On his way home from work, Donghae does not intend to stop and go into a cosmetics store.

But he does.

He doesn’t mean to head over to the perfume section, either, but he does that too.

A shop assistant smiles and asks if he is looking for anything in particular. He shakes his head, embarrassed, and claims that he’s “just browsing” until she goes into another section of the store.

He can’t find the scent that Hyungsik was wearing, so he convinces himself that he came in to buy dental floss, makes the purchase, and leaves.

 

 

It is a total coincidence that he goes into another cosmetics store on the walk home the following day. And when he takes a new route home the day after that, which just happens to go past a different shop, with a wider range of perfumes.

 

 

He finds it on the fourth day, but four is an unlucky number, so he doesn’t buy it. He does, however, at the insistence of a particularly intrusive salesgirl, try a sample of it.

She instructs him in proper application, telling him to spray it lightly on his wrists and throat, and she tells him that it suits him.

She teaches him that perfumes interact differently with peoples’ skin, which he hadn’t known before, and when he gets home, he touches the places he’s applied it with cautious fingertips, and inhales the perfume studiously, wondering if Ryeowook would think that it smells better on his skin than on Hyungsik’s.

 

 

The next few days are too busy for Donghae to get out of work before the shops close, and it is not until the following week that he finishes early enough to return to the store and buy the perfume, although strangely enough, when he’d showered after trying the sample, he’d found that he noticed the absence of the scent, and missed it.

He’s been thinking about it ever since: that he wants to wear it always; wants to be enfolded in it.

It is a scent with a sort of soft smokiness to it, and although it is faintly floral, it is bruised rather than sweet. It is both masculine and tender, and it has taken on a life of its own in Donghae’s senses; so much so that his desire overrides his instinctive thriftiness when he finally forces himself to return to the store and is confronted with the price.

His heart has already made the decision—his brain can only protest weakly before being drowned out by the acceleration of his pulse.

In coming to this store, however, Donghae has made a grievous error.

He has forgotten that it is close by the university.

His trophy in hand, concealed by the shop logo on the bag, he is headed for the door when he comes face-to-face with none other than Ryeowook, and Hyungsik close behind, parting ways with a larger group of students outside.

The timing could not be worse. Donghae can’t hide—the store is too small—and he can’t get out, because Ryeowook is already making his way through the door, followed by Hyungsik—blocking his escape.

If his heart had been racing before, he now fears he may suffer a heart attack, but he manages instead to nod a civil greeting to each of them.

‘Ryeowook. Hyungsik,’ he says, unintentionally terse, but he can feel his neck going red, and he just wants to get away as quickly as he can, because Ryeowook is looking at him and smiling, and though he cannot possibly know what Donghae is carrying _, Donghae_ does, and the glut of emotion is unbearable.

Worst of all is the arousal—both unexpected and unwelcome. It begins with an innocuous wave of gooseflesh as Ryeowook’s eyes lock with his own, but it pools in his core as something altogether more substantial.

He mumbles something about urgent business, and pushes his way past them into the protective cloak of a dim twilight.

 

 

  

 

 

> _Donghae, it was good to see you the other day._
> 
> _How are you going?_
> 
> Received 10:32am

Donghae stares for a long time at the message on his screen.

It is a Saturday morning, and he is not ready to process this.

He gets up and goes to have a shower before he answers, and then sits back down on his bed, managing to write only  

 

> _Hi_
> 
> _I’m good_
> 
> Sent 11:17am 
> 
>  ***********************

> _Good morning._
> 
> _That’s good! I’m glad to hear it ^^_
> 
> Received 11:18

Donghae’s mind, rather unhelpfully, begins to wonder what Ryeowook looks like on a Saturday morning. If he’s slept in. If he’s texting Donghae from his bed. What he might be wearing. Whether he’s alone… 

His eyes flick to the grey glass bottle of perfume, sitting on his desk, and then back to his phone, which is chirruping as he receives new messages. 

 

> _I’m sorry we didn’t get to talk much the other night. It was so busy. Too many people!_
> 
> _Are you busy later?_
> 
> Received 11:19

Donghae stares at the screen, and wonders if he is, in fact, still asleep and dreaming, as the messages from Ryeowook keep coming.  

 

> _Maybe we can get coffee?_
> 
> Received 11:19

‘It’s not like we don’t know each other,’ he reminds himself, aloud, to his empty room. ‘It’s not like we aren’t friends.’ He knows that he’s kidding himself, because last time he saw Ryeowook he got a boner in public, but he needs to verbalise some kind of pretext—it’s the only way he can give himself the courage to agree.  

 

> _Yeah? That sounds good_
> 
> _Where were you thinking?_
> 
> Sent 11:20am
> 
> ***********************

> _How about Cafe Civet? That’s near us both right?_
> 
> Sent 11:22am
> 
> ********************** 

> _Sure_
> 
> Sent 11:23am

> ********************** 
> 
> _3:30?_
> 
> Sent 11:23am

Donghae forced himself to wait a few minutes before replying again. 

 

> _Sure_
> 
> Sent 11:27am 
> 
> ********************* 

> _Great ^^_ _See you there_
> 
> Sent 11:29am

 

  

He really would have liked to pretend he hadn’t just spend the past three hours emptying his wardrobe onto the floor, but there is an exceptionally large pile of clothing in the middle of the room that begs to differ.

Ignoring that, for the moment, he studies his reflection.

He’s not an unattractive person, he thinks. He may not be as tall as that guy, Hyungsik, but he’s definitely fit, and not just that illusory fitness that you could get if you were _big_ , but a functional fitness, developed through painstaking hours of training. A committed kind of fit. The kind of fit where the definition of his quadriceps and hamstrings is visible through denim, and the musculature of his chest and arms swells visibly under the cotton of his sweater.

Are the jeans too tight?

Is the scooped neckline of his sweater too low? He can practically see his own nipples, not that the thin fabric does much to conceal them—

Why does he care so much, anyway?

The answer is there, in the back of his mind, looking at him with clear dark eyes and resting his hand on his chin.

He wants Ryeowook to look at him. He wants Ryeowook to look at him the way he looks at the articles and people he finds interesting. He wants to be the subject of that unhesistant, uncompromising scrutiny. Wants to feel the weight of Ryeowook’s eyes on him. And he wants Ryeowook to like what he sees.

He becomes embarrassed of the excessive amount of thought he is putting into getting a stupid coffee, and turns his attention to the task of transferring the large mound of fabric back into the wardrobe, in one tangled mass, and then looks back to the mirror, spending ten minutes or so trying to tame his hair, but it is getting long, and cheerfully defies both gravity and his best attempts to arrange it neatly.

Finally, he picks up the heavy grey glass bottle of the all-important perfume, and applies it lightly to his wrists and throat.

The gesture calms him a little—it makes him feel somehow complete, and he musters the courage to look in the mirror one final time.

‘It’ll do,’ he tells his reflection, gruffly.

For better or worse, he has run out of time to agonise—his phone is telling him that it’s time to go.


	2. Scent & Skin

When Donghae arrives, Ryeowook is already on the street outside the café, leaning against the window.

Donghae knows that it’s him. His hair is falling across his face, concealing his features, and his chin is tucked into a black bomber jacket, zipped up tight against the cold, but Donghae can tell it’s him, just from the proportions of his body, and the way that he stands.

And truthfully, Donghae falters the instant he claps eyes on him. He genuinely considers turning and walking the other way. But of course, the choice is taken away from him, because Ryeowook looks up. Their eyes meet, and Ryeowook’s chin emerges from the collar of his jacket, and he smiles.

He doesn’t say or do anything else. But his gaze is expectant, and Donghae finds himself stepping on, skittish as a wild horse, but drawn forwards by some invisible lure.

He stops a foot or so away. The wall is hit: this is as far as he will go.

‘Hope I didn’t keep you waiting,’ he murmurs by way of greeting, so softly he can barely hear it himself.

Ryeowook’s lips are still curled upwards. His face has never been gentle—it is too sharp for that. Instead, his silent smile is mysterious and faintly intimidating. But his eyes are kind.

‘Not at all,’ he says.

An icy breeze splits the air between them. It lifts the hair from Ryeowook’s forehead, and ruffles his collar: in fact, it has enough arctic force behind it to unravel Donghae’s scarf, the loose end of which wilfully flipflops across the small distance between them to settle on Ryeowook’s shoulder.

For a split second, Ryeowook’s eyes flick to Donghae’s exposed throat. Then, calmly, he reaches up to return the scarf to its original position.

Donghae would love to pretend that the gooseflesh enveloping him is because of the cold.

‘The café is closed,’ Ryeowook is saying, his tone apologetic. ‘I really should have checked before I asked you to come out.’

‘O—oh. Ah. Oh well,’ Donghae stutters, heartily resenting the note of hysteria in his tone. ‘M-maybe we can, uh, reschedule, and come back sometime when it’s open.’

Ryeowook purses his lips, frowning slightly. ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Donghae-ssi,’ he says, mildly. ‘The coffee wasn’t the important thing. I haven’t seen you in _ages_.’

And there it is.

That voice, wrapping around Donghae like a lasso. The way it lilts makes his intestines wrap around his stomach, and makes his throat tight. He checks; finds that he’s stopped breathing; forces an exhalation. ‘Mm,’ he grunts, noncommittally. ‘Well, but—not really. I mean, I’ve _seen_ you.’

‘Oh, stop it, Donghae. Sitting at opposite ends of the table with twenty other people isn’t a conversation.’

‘…No.’

‘No. Now, where shall we go? There’s got to be _some_ kind of café around here somewhere.’ Ryeowook glances around them, his intelligent eyes bright and glittery like galaxies shining in a dark night. Donghae should probably be looking about too, but is only capable of shifting his weight so that they are not squared off against each other, which feels too…too… _much_.

Presently, Ryeowook spies what he is looking for, and he literally takes Donghae by the elbow to steer him across the road and just around the corner, where a sandwich board is peeking out promising shelter and a warm drink.

Unfortunately, when they step inside, it is to find the room already packed out with warm bodies. Ryeowook turns to Donghae, looking visibly disappointed. ‘No tables,’ he observes sadly. ‘What shall we do? Maybe get takeaway and find somewhere to sit down outside?’

‘My place is nearby.’

 _Who said that. Did I say that? Shit. I said that. Fuck._ No _, Donghae._ No. _Why? Why did you go and say a thing like that?_

‘…I mean, it’s small, but…’

Donghae wills him to decline, but…nope. Ryeowook’s eyes have lit up, and he looks so sweetly and genuinely delighted that Donghae stops breathing again.

‘If it isn’t any trouble,’ he says. ‘We can take our time that way. It will be great. Here, if we’re doing that, let me get the coffee, though,’ and he beelines for the counter, leaving Donghae standing breathless and quaking in his wake.

Donghae opts to remain in place until Ryeowook returns with the takeaway coffees—partly for logistical reasons, because the café is not large, and there are a lot of people in it, but mostly because he is too stunned to move. But then Ryeowook comes back to him, with the two takeaway mugs tucked neatly into their little cardboard carrier, and it falls to Donghae to lead the way back through the winding streets to his little apartment, all the way thanking any god listening for giving him the foresight to shove his clothes back into the closet before he’d left.

Ryeowook follows him up the stairs to his apartment at what is probably a socially acceptable distance.

To Donghae, it feels indecently close, but that’s his own problem: it’s not Ryeowook’s fault that he has every suggestive thought in the world in the time it takes to mount three flights of stairs and get through the door.

He punches in the keycode and then stands aside so that Ryeowook and the coffees can enter.

Pauses on the threshold to hold the coffees while Ryeowook kicks off his shoes and tugs off his coat, and then follows, tentative in his own home, as Ryeowook moves into the centre of the small living space. He watches Ryeowook’s perceptive eyes travel around the room. He watches as those eyes come to rest on a grey glass bottle, which, unlike the clothes, he did _not_ have the foresight to put away.

‘It’s a nice apartment.’

‘Th-thanks.’

But he’s not looking at the apartment. He’s looking at the fucking perfume.

A distraction. Donghae needs to create a distraction.

He moves to the counter and busies himself freeing the cups from their cardboard prison.

It works—Ryeowook comes to stand at his shoulder.

But it doesn’t really work—certainly not as he plans. Because suddenly there is a hand resting casually against his back—just a light touch; a friendly touch; between the shoulder blades—and he does not know what to do. His heartrate skyrockets, and there is no way that Ryeowook doesn’t feel it.

No. The gig is up.

He knows.

Ryeowook knows.

His hand moves gently down Donghae’s spine to rest against the small of his back, and then gently draws him about until they face each other.

And Donghae…well, he does not resist being turned, nor does he resist being backed slowly against the wall.

By rights, Donghae feels that he, as the taller between the two of them, should really be the one in control of the situation. But he is discovering rapidly that this is most definitely not the case.

Softly, intently, carefully, Ryeowook tangles his fingers in the low neckline of Donghae’s black sweater. The fabric draws tight around the back of Donghae’s neck as Ryeowook pulls on it, but if anything, Donghae resists the drag. Ryeowook’s gaze is a stronger force than the pull of his fingers, and it is to that Donghae responds, pushing himself hard against the wall in a silent plea to borrow its strength and immobility.

Ryeowook smells like honey. His fingers are cool where they rest—lightly; incidentally—against Donghae’s chest. As he looks into Donghae’s eyes, he has an air of quiet confidence that makes Donghae grateful for the wall’s support.

Cool fingers smooth a path over his skin, and come to rest on his collarbone. ‘Donghae-ssi…did you have any other plans this afternoon?’

Donghae shakes his head. He has to whisper, or his voice will crack. ‘No.’

Ryeowook’s lips, which are close, so close to his own, curve into that delighted little smile.

Donghae closes his eyes. He can see and smell and hear and feel and almost _taste_ Ryeowook now, and the assault on his senses is too much.

As the darkness enfolds him, gentle and welcoming, Ryeowook’s hand does the same, his fingers wrapping gently around the left-hand side of his neck.

Instinct tells Donghae to move towards the pressure on his skin, and it is only after he has complied that he understands he has been trapped—that the movement exposes the other side of his throat.

A shiver of anticipation courses through him as he feels Ryeowook lean closer. He braces himself for physical contact, but it never comes—there is only the tantalising, shadowy sensation of warm breath against his skin before Ryeowook withdraws again.

Donghae emits a tiny sound of…of what? What does he feel?

Disappointment, he realises, mixed with fear. His heart hammers desperately against his ribcage; his stomach spinning like a windmill in a hurricane.

Ryeowook speaks. His tone is thicker, richer than before, and somehow rough in its texture.

‘Did you do this for me, Donghae-ssi? The clothes…The scent…Are you trying to tempt me?’

 _He’s pleased with me._ Donghae feels an unmistakeable frisson in his lower abdomen at the thought. But a well-trodden road of guilt and embarrassment has lit up in his mind, and the signs point down the freeway of denial, so he can’t help but shake his head. ‘No…’

‘You’re lying,’ says Ryeowook, his voice a chocolate swirl of amusement and accusation. His hand tightens, ever so slightly on Donghae’s neck, and the world spins and buckles.

‘If you did it for me, then it’s working,’ Ryeowook whispers.

Donghae does not plan to speak, but he does, and he says the strangest thing:

‘Don’t hurt me.’

A weird thing to say—why did he say that? The phrase echoes in his mind, piling onto his mound of things to be ashamed of, pinned here in his vulnerability and foolishness.

But Ryeowook, after a moment’s silence, just answers, as though it was a perfectly normal request.

‘I won’t.’

And there is such tenderness in the phrase that Donghae suddenly feels like he’s dissolving, like brown sugar in hot water.

‘You’re safe with me, Donghae-ssi. Look at me.’

He’s speaking even more softly now, as though coaxing a frightened animal, but there is an undercurrent of authority to his words, and Donghae is compelled to obey.

He is so very, very close. Despite his best efforts to breathe evenly, Donghae’s chest is heaving, his eyes fixed on Ryeowook’s lips as he blushes into the silence.

Under the pressure of that hand, Donghae can’t think—and he doesn’t want to. He can’t control his body anymore, doesn’t have the strength even to hold himself up. But with Ryeowook near, he doesn’t feel like he needs to. So he surrenders to his weakness, and lets himself collapse into the steady calm of Ryeowook’s grip, his head falling back against the wall with a thud.

A moan escapes him as he feels sharp teeth scraping softly over his skin; lips, brushing their way lightly up to his ear.

Ryeowook knows where he is looking. He seems amused, but shifts his weight forward obligingly, and although Donghae makes a pretense of pulling back against the wall, he is submitting, his own lips parting hungrily, hopefully…Only for Ryeowook to pull away millimetres before contact; smug, his eyes alight with triumph.

Donghae’s chest is not the only thing throbbing now.

He shifts awkwardly, trying to resist the urge to rearrange himself, to alleviate his discomfort. But he can’t help it—his heart rate is rising; his skin quivering. He _wants_.

Ryeowook _knows_.

Nothing needs to be said: he just licks his lips and raises one impeccable eyebrow, his smugness becoming almost tangible.

‘This is your fault,’ Donghae mutters, unable to keep the note of petulance from his tone.

Ryeowook’s lips part, and his pupils dilate, but he speaks with his actions instead of his words, dropping to his knees.

The belt buckle gives in quickly; his fly unzipped, and his cock freed by cool and nimble fingers.

Ryeowook glances up at him with another little smile, and then, ever so gently, his lips part to make way for Donghae’s dick.

Donghae whimpers again, and the sound evolves into a deep groan as Ryeowook’s mouth envelops him. The collective impact of warmth and wetness and softness is all-consuming and overpowering—his fingers spasm, scraping so hard against the wall that he will later find paint under his nails.

Ryeowook hums appreciatively, and the reverberations make Donghae feel as though reality is turning inside out. And although Ryeowook’s touch and his mouth are soft and steady at first, Donghae begins to feel as though he doesn’t know himself, doesn’t know what he wants, because he wants every moment to go on exactly as it is forever, or so he thinks—but then, when it changes, each time it changes, it’s exactly what he hadn’t known he wanted; whether it’s that unbearably firm, soft, slow squeeze of hollowed-out cheeks, or the sweet, fast, messy, loud torment of tight lips—

Eventually, the support of the wall is not enough; nothing will hold him together except the glossy threads of Ryeowook’s hair between his fingers, and as he twines his fingers through those silky strands, Ryeowook murmurs encouragingly. He shifts his weight, and his displaced hands move to Donghae’s hips, pushing Donghae none-too-gently back against the wall.

Donghae’s fingers twist and pull, and as he pleads incoherently, those firm, compressing lips slide down the shaft of his cock, the accompanying sounds filthy and spectacular.

He glances down, heat rising in his cheeks. He can feel the well-worn shame and embarrassment highway lighting up again.

But Ryeowook…Ryeowook is looking back at him, unabashed. As their eyes meet, he blinks, once, and though it is nothing more than a dip of his eyelashes, it is the same as his long, slow smile—every bit as warm, and every bit as soothing.

He eases back, stealing a breath of air, and then lowers his lips again, never once looking away.

If his eyes were coals before, they are like open flames now.

Donghae’s breath shudders in his throat, and everything shifts into slow motion.

He’s losing focus, now; he can barely even see the bright glint of his belt buckle where it rests against Ryeowook’s skin, the hard metal edge pressing into his cheek.

He’s not just losing focus: he’s beginning to unravel, from the inside, and the signs are everywhere: in the ragged edges of his breathing, as his lungs try to compensate for his exertion; in the way his fingers twist in Ryeowook’s hair; in the fact that he is beginning to whisper the word please, over and over again, with the occasional inclusion of Ryeowook’s name.

Ryeowook answers with a muffled laugh and a smile, and Donghae’s breath catches so violently that he chokes. He gasps; his fingers twist and his toes curl, and then it’s over: the world rushing away from him as though he’s jumped from the top of Niagara Falls, and Ryeowook is the safe, warm, quiet void that catches him.

Once he regains the ability to move, he slides weakly down the wall, legs parting around Ryeowook’s body where he kneels in the same way the ocean splits around an island. Sweat plasters his hair to his forehead and his neck. He feels hot, and damp, and salty, and the Niagara Falls jump is now hitting him with its full impact.

He whimpers involuntarily, closing his eyes against the overwhelming barrage of sense and emotion, and the anchor point that emerges is the cool palms that cradle his cheeks, and the smiling lips that press against his slick forehead. The air around them smells of perfume, and skin, and sex. 

'I'd better take responsibility for you, then,' Ryeowook is saying softly.

Donghae realises, after a moment, that the younger man is answering the accusation from...from before.

But there is more weight to it than that, because it's more than just an answer.

It's a promise.


End file.
